


A special disguise / kunik

by sshysmm



Series: 12 days of carnivale 2018 [2]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: 12 Days of Carnivale, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Au where goodsir lives, F/M, Ficlet, Mutual Pining, One Shot Collection, Short & Sweet, Short One Shot, blink and you'll miss it cannibalism mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 19:20:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16980297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshysmm/pseuds/sshysmm
Summary: It's Christmas let's celebrate with dorks who love each other but won't admit it! Set after Goodsir has survived and spent a winter with Silna and her people, where obviously she still has Tuunbaq so isn't cast out on her own.I can't promise I'll have the time to write for every day of carnivale but I will try!





	A special disguise / kunik

**Author's Note:**

> Nb disguise in title may be metaphorical sorry. 
> 
> Angakok - shaman  
> Kunik - 'Eskimo kiss', not actually a kiss or the nose-rubbing thing people do but it's pressing your nose to someone's skin and breathing them in deeply

He wears a special disguise: the appearance of a man not completely, foolishly in love. He responds to all she says with a careful coolness, a casual shrug, the smile that is the smile of a very good friend. A brotherly smile, that is what he aims for.  
All through the long winter she has been his guide and teacher, and before that she was his saviour. On the one hand — he tells himself — it is perfectly natural that he should be grateful. And who would not admire a person like her? She is resourceful and observant, warm and clever, and he has learned the hard way how keen an edge her sense of humour has. He is not ashamed of the awe he feels when she lets her arrow fly, of the pride — that he has no claim on — that nonetheless swells when she is thanked for her work as shaman to her people.  
These feelings bleed into another though, which he will not let her see. Love stakes a claim: it asks to be welcomed and it expects an equal response. And he cannot hope to be deserving of her love, not after all else that has passed. At best he must surely be a nuisance to her and at worst — he flinches to think of it — a reminder that her father was not saved, a symbol of all his countrymen have taken and spoiled and polluted.  
It is better to wear his disguise, to wait until the traders go south and him with them. He will leave her to the rest of her life in peace, conducting her duties here in a normal way, forgetting that he and his people ever stumbled across this land.

* * *

  
The angakok sees through the illusions of other sorcerers. The angakok is not fooled by shifting shapes, lying words or mistaken identities. When a man has talked — endless talking! He talks of everything — through all, the angakok is the first to notice when he guards his words. When honest, gentle eyes slip from hers, seeking refuge on the tent floor or horizon, the angakok sees all.  
He misses his family. Winter is over and he is impatient to leave, and her company is no longer enough for him. It is the obvious explanation, and she allows him this with as much graciousness as she can muster.  
It stings though. It was no conscious decision to win him over to this way of life, but she realises now that she wanted him to want to stay. She has shown him all the wonder of this place, taught him all the skills needed to live, but still he must prefer the memories of his home, so far from here.  
She will not ask him to remain: her deeds have been her argument, her love in the fur clothes she has made to replace his old ones, her love in the days spent by his side as he recovered from the poisons his people brought for food, her love in the long quiet hours hunting seal together. She will bid him farewell and never be allowed to forget his kindness when the blunt scar of her tongue’s tip moves in her mouth. She is changed; the land is changed. What has been done cannot be undone, but she has managed to salvage some love from the wreckage. She will keep it close, even when he is gone.

* * *

  
He checks his small pack: all is ready for the next morning’s leave-taking. Outside the tent the sky is lapis blue. He has missed the sun and the horizon is a dark wall beyond the camp. People are gathering for the feast that will happen on behalf of the departing traders, but he does not feel like socialising just yet.  
Nor does she, evidently. She walks into view and raises a smile for him, though her thoughts weigh heavy on her shoulders and brows.  
He searches for levity even though his heart tumbles in his chest at the sight of her, her skin licked golden by the flames of the fire behind him. Some brief comment about how he will soon be out of her hair should do.  
But she is not entertained: she tells him instead that he has been no trouble to her. She promises not to forget him when he leaves.  
He wavers. His disguise suddenly feels too weighty a thing to keep; too cramped to hide what must overflow. _You are too kind_ , he wants to tell her. That, and so much more.  
She asks if he is excited to see his people, and it catches him unawares. His mask is absent, his expression momentarily reveals the horror of his memories — red meat on white china, Gibson’s body heavy in his arms, his viscera already cooling under his hands at the dissection.  
He shakes his head. No. The prospect of explaining that does not excite him.  
Then what? She frowns. Does he think he must go? He can stay, if it pleases him to. They do not have much, but all that they have will be shared. She scrutinises him, now standing within arm’s reach. At last she sees something and speaks her revelation out loud: she sees that he does not want to leave.  
«Stay,» she says.  
He tries to remind himself of all the reasons why he should not stay.  
«Stay,» she says again, her tone brooking no contradictions.  
The disguise is crumbling around him and his voice trembles as he asks her whether this is what she wants.  
The movement of her chin is minute, her eyes are wide and serious, her brows furrowed in soft concern. But she nods, standing so near now, her bulky parka only inches from his own.

* * *

  
Even if he changes his mind and leaves, she will claim this one embrace. She reaches out to grasp his shoulder, her other hand cupping the back of his head, lost in the labyrinth of tangled curls. The skin under his hair is warm next to her chill fingers as she guides his face close to hers.  
He stiffens for a moment, resisting the hold as she pulls him near, but she can feel his conscious effort to relax. She chooses the smooth skin just above his beard as the landing place for the kunik, grazing the cold tip of her nose over his cheekbone before she presses her skin to his, upper lip to nose, the wiry hair of his beard tickling her cheek and chin.  
He smells of the dusty winds and the smoke of her lamp. A little of the damp smell of his old clothes lingers, a hint of the musk of his new clothes. He makes a small sound at her touch and she feels his hands try for shivering purchase on her back.  
He tells her that he will stay.  
No more need for disguises. 


End file.
